Simulacrum
by Kako
Summary: On the eve of December 31, 1944, Tom Marvolo Riddle ceases to exist and for the first time Lord Voldemort becomes truly immortal. Happy Birthday, Mr. Riddle. /Character sketch, quartet/ COMPLETE!
1. The Game

Title: Simulacrum

Summary: [Day One: He will destroy himself or the world, whichever comes first] Tom Riddle centric, quartet.

This is Kako's super special one-shot quartet extraordinaire written to commemorate Tom Riddle's birthday (because I'm a bit of a dork like that). There are four parts to this story, and one will be posted each day until the 31st. Enjoy!

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_**The Game**_

Life is boring, he realizes one day. It has been too long since he has had any real adventure, and these idiots around him are making things far too easy. It's like they almost _want _him to succeed with his plans of crushing them all into the dirt where they belong, so they can idolize him from his position on their now-vacant throne, where _he _belongs.

He realizes he has been daydreaming for too long when several of his classmates give him strange looks, but he does not pay attention to them, they are not worth his time or energy. They cannot give him anything in return.

Tom realizes something else when he is asked a question by his favorite professor (a distinction without meaning, for Slughorn is the professor who least irritates him and that means he wins by default) because it is his fourth year and he is now taking new courses that are supposed to eventually manifest themselves into some kind of career. Tom did not have an answer when Slughorn asked him what he wanted to do with his life after graduation.

To be fair, the sheer amount of strategic exploitation his professor was trying to accomplish would have directed any conceptual career ideas into, _wouldn't you like to run for Minister of Magic someday, my boy? You could do it, I believe in you! You'd be the youngest yet, mark my words!_

He sat down in his room with a handful of colorful brochures and proceeded to pick apart the offerings. Just as he suspected, the world was full of idiots.

None of the fields presented appealed to him. He decided to create his own. That would ensure that he would be the best at what he did, after all.

It was faintly more difficult to follow through on his plans. He knew he would have to begin early, and he had to resort to self-teaching in lieu of an actual course on power escalation. He was half glad there was no such course; he would not take competition well.

He wonders nightly on a myriad of subjects, from language and philosophy and history; it's complex and he likes things that way, gives him a _challenge_. He thought immortality was a _challenge_; now look where _that _got him (it got him far, _very…very…far…_) but it's not far enough, because like he knows, just _one_ is so _boring _so he's got to improvise, up the ante just a little.

It is not real. None of it is real, but they don't know that. It is lonely at the top, but _he_ knows that. He laughs, enjoying how the sound of his voice conquers the silence. He laughs again, just for the hell of it.

The magic is haunting him, he knows that. He can feel it and he knows that when he wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat or when he invents a new spell that it is all because of something he does not understand yet because he knows everything he knows because he knows it, and as such also knows where the boundary of his knowledge lies and the thought that there is knowledge in this world that he does not know (books he has not read, places he has not visited, potions he has not brewed, spells he has yet to cast) irks him tremendously, and he must put it inside his mind or risk destroying himself or the world, whichever comes first.

And _really_, why would he put out the fire that he himself has caused? It doesn't make _any_ sense. Lots of things aren't making sense to him anymore, but he doesn't let that stop him. He'll sort it all out later, because right now he has a train to catch and a ring to find and a father to kill.

The ring weighs heavy in his hand and heavier on his mind and he wonders. Be honest, is this what you wanted? Of course. He must win.

Losing is so _ugly_, and he can't have that. It had always been about winning, and about the game...the game, the game, and nothing else. Nothing else but the game.

Regeneration is uglier. He knows, he knows _so _much about _everything _that sometimes he feels he might crack with the sheer force of it all, because being _special_ shouldn't hurt this much (and everyone he has ever met tells him he is _special_, but what they mean and what he thinks it means is something else entirely) because power should not hurt this badly and it should not be changing him this much, silently stating six short, simple words: I am broken, please fix me.

There is no one even _near _him because he has always been alone, (and he is alone because there is no one else like him in this world, and if there was he would have killed them already because he does not like competition, and hasn't he said this already?) but it does not matter. It is the undeniable truth, that he _has _always and _will _always be alone, but he tries to convince himself that he does not need them, anyway.

To the ones who remain, he says nothing, but in the silence his lips form the words, plainly.

_Anchor me if you will; your efforts are inconsequential. The world will end with me._

_

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_A/N:

1) Just to let the audience know, this story is already finished, and will be 4 chapters long in total. I wanted to write something for TMR's birthday last year, but I missed it, so I put off writing it until now.

2) This story contains _no pairings_. (Don't look at me like that! xD)

3) My characterization of Tom in this piece places an emphasis on his arrogance, narcissism, and borderline insanity. Each section of this piece is meant to be short-ish, but once you read them all together they should make some additional sense. xD

_4) Please review!_ This is a new style for me, and I really want to know what you all think!


	2. Music Box

Simulacrum

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read the first chapter. This one is somewhat different, I hope you enjoy!

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**Music Box**

There is a word in the dictionary for people like him.  
(There are many words, really, and he knows them all—_  
Sadistic, sycophantic, slippery, slithering, Ssssss…__  
S _for _Slytherin_, for _success_, for _scholarly_, for _sophisticated_,  
for _sovereign_, for _supremacy_, for _strength_.)  
He loves the _sound_, and repeats it often, admiring  
the way the _syllables_ _string successively…_  
He breaks the pattern.  
Ah, doesn't matter. It was meant to be broken, then._  
Strangling_—Ah, there, it returns!_  
See_, how _striking _it is!  
When Tom was _seven _he decided his future  
and forgot his past and lost the present,_  
somewhere_, in a delicious tangle of wishes  
and desires and magic and things too potent to  
be real and too tangible to be fake. He learns to  
understand jealousy, retribution, glory, and _subjugation_.  
What he does not learn, he _simulates_, and it is  
a very good thing that Tom is that good at pretending,  
because he has had a lot of practice.  
(What is that _saying _about practice making perfect?)  
Lingering around him is an apathetic disregard for the rest  
of the world, because really, what did they ever do for him?  
Answer: Not a damn. He'll make them wish they'd tried  
even harder to kill him, because in the chill of the December air  
he was once an infant and he could be killed then,  
but no longer, he's made _sure _of that.  
He wonders when he'll ever be _satisfied_.  
With anything and everything, nothing and _something_.  
If there is music in the language of the _spheres_,  
then why aren't they _singing _for him?  
(Have they lost the ability to _speak?_)  
It makes him _sick_, this world. He's tried to escape it,_  
silver shield _in one hand and wand conducting_  
staccato _accents and measures with the other,  
but while they are _slow_ their numbers are incalculable,  
bringing him down, tying him to their mediocrity, their _shortcomings_.  
They may have bound him to the _seal _of their imperfections,  
but he has ripped the _stitches_ out of their plans, he will not _sink _down  
like they assume, he must prove himself—  
Is there _someone _out there to praise him?  
Who but a demon would praise what he has accomplished?  
Anyone _sane _would be totally… _sincerely_…_shocked_.  
He looks up and _smiles_ from where he has fallen,  
at the palace he has made his home, when in reality  
the _sumptuous _expanse he observesin his duplicitous eyes might as  
well be the bottom of a very dark, very deep, impossible-to-escape well.  
Well-well-well—welcome, it _screams_.  
He loves the music he creates.  
He _skillfully _brings it to a crescendo as one more life  
is _snuffed _out just because he can and that _supposedly _gives him  
the right to do it, but the _shot _to his mind is a painful thing nonetheless,  
filling him up like a drug and leaving him gasping for more,  
and he _shall _get more of it whatever it takes, but what was he expecting?  
Just like the _static _before a _storm_, _shuddering_ from the force of it—  
The bridge is crossed, now _stand_ and watch it burn.  
The pattern—what pattern?—has been tipped out of place,  
the notes of his triumph warbling like _some shattered_ elegy,  
the rhythm broken and busted and oh-_so_-perfectly in tune to Tom's ears.  
It is _set _in _stone_.

* * *

A/N:

1. This is, erm, meant to be some very twisted, very unusual blank-verse poetry. I'm not quite sure what I'm trying to accomplish with this, but I wanted to get just a glimpse inside crazy!Tom's mind. I hope I _succeeded_.

_2. Stylistic_ notes: Crazy!Tom is also apparently OCD. Just wanted to bring to your attention that none of the '_s_' words were ever repeated throughout this _section_. xD

3. _Please review?  
_


	3. Pictogram

Simulacrum

A/N: This segment takes place during Tom's final year at Hogwarts. Enjoy!

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**Pictogram**

All he had built up over the years was one, big, elaborate hoax to convince himself that he was actually not, in fact, a monster.

It was working astoundingly well, as all pretty lies do, when denial becomes more than just a friend, the two are so close that denial might as well be a member of the family—if he _had _any family left, which he doesn't, he's _taken care _of them, one might say, in the euphemistic way that one could also say that Tom Riddle is a genial young man with the best intentions and can be trusted with one's deepest, darkest secrets, instead of a monster.

To anyone who looks on the surface, he is the epitome of the hope of the nation; a kind, helpful, academically talented youth with no trauma, no inconsistencies, and no skeletons in the closet. A monster, he is not.

_Monsters _are green, ghoulish creatures that hide under children's beds and only come out at night, and solely exist to scare and torment others.

Tom Riddle, on the other hand, also wears green, yet does none of those other things at the risk of being identified as such. It's never sat right with him, that others can't see his art for what it truly is and resort to brutish name-calling in order to justify their separation from him in a genus-and-species type of way.

He is the _rescuer_—(_but_ _what if they don't want to be rescued?_)—If they cannot see his intentions then they are blind, and he is the one who shall lead them (like _he _intends) and it's really a shame that they have to be so stubborn about _change_.

The word _evil _was tossed around more than once, and it almost makes him angrier than when he's called _monster_, but this one he can let go, if he's in the mood to do so, because if the contemporary calls themselves _good_, he will gladly claim the opposite title (And they are not _good_ or _evil_, but simply _wrong_). His indulgent moods are not known to last very long.

_Everyone _who has ever called him a monster has died, and they did so in the most gruesome way imaginable, because if they want a monster then a monster they shall receive.

Besides, the common perception of monsters is that they are also ugly and grossly overweight, and Tom prides himself on the useful tool that is his beauty (He was not always beautiful, which annoyed him, because he was worried for a moment that it might be more difficult to contradict his supposed monstrosity without physical beauty, but when he turned thirteen that all changed, thank goodness).

He is beautiful on the outside, that serpentine seductive beauty that screams, _Look, but don't touch_. Maybe his beauty will detract from the smoldering, walking sin that is Tom Riddle, on the _inside_.

(There is one good thing about the _possibility_ that he may or may _not _be a monster, because monsters live forever, that much is common knowledge, and Tom is terrified of the prospect of dying, so would becoming a monster really be all that bad?)

He has no shame, that one. Pride (well, _obviously_, he thinks), Greed, Envy (he admits later), Gluttony, Wrath and Lust (on more than one occasion, each).

Sloth is the easiest of them all, for that is what he is doing now. The synopsis is startling, when he finally gets around to thinking about it:

Knowing that he spoke like a monster, lived like a monster, reminded him that that was what he now was. Maybe he had always been one.

* * *

A/N:

1) The original intent of this piece as a whole was to provide a kind of character-sketch for Tom, and I think this segment showcases that best.

2)_ Please review?_


	4. Mirror Mirror

Simulacrum

A/N: A Happy New Year to everyone reading this, and happy birthday to Mr. Riddle. This is the last one. This section was partly inspired by _A Picture of Dorian Grey_. And what's this? An actual plot! Oh, my!

* * *

**Mirror Mirror**

There is a mirror in a small room on the fifth floor that shows him the future.

It is _wonderful_, and he once spent all day just looking at himself in it. It was worth it, and the lie he had to tell his professors about illnesses and the frailty of the teenage mind was worth it.

Tom looks into the mirror and he sees beautiful things. He sees himself in an ordinary room as one by one the walls fall down around him and he is met with the most glorious image of a city on fire and he knows he has caused it, and he watches the sky burn as the streets are bathed in blood. He can almost smell it; he can certainly taste it (he later discovers this was because he had bitten his own tongue, although he cannot remember how exactly that happened).

The dust clouding the air makes Tom aware that he is the only one in a very long time who has discovered this room. This makes him glad; these images are a right that only he should be allowed.

He begins to bring his lunch to eat before the mirror. He watches himself eat a shiny red apple, eyes locked with his own. He is beautiful and so is the apple and he almost doesn't notice the worm crawling out of one side of it until he looks down because he could not see the worm in the mirror, worms are not beautiful, and he hurls the apple away in disgust. He looks back at his reflection, satisfied, although he cannot shake the heaviness of the swallowed piece of apple weighing down his throat. He swallows again, but the feeling never leaves.

He spends further days sitting in front of the mirror and watching himself. Once, he tried to chip away a piece of it to carry around in his pocket but it would not crack, and that made him angry and he refused to visit the room for a full three days until he could resist its call no longer.

He stares at himself and sees the harmless, dark eyes staring right back. He is closer now, his nose almost brushing the glass, and he reaches out one hand to touch the smooth surface. He watches as his double mimics the action, and for a second he can almost swear he feels his own skin instead of glass.

He looks into his eyes, and sees glory, and joy, and promise. _So _much _promise_. He looks at himself and thinks, _In your eyes lies all my happiness_...

The silence of the air fails to remind him that _your eyes also lie_.

Weeks go by. Months, possibly. The seasons have changed but there are no windows in that cavernous little room so he would not be able to look past his reflection and observe the weather, for he only has eyes for that oval piece of polished glass. It is colder in that room and he has taken to wearing a scarf during his visits. He sits in his usual spot, propping his chin up on one hand as he stares at himself. It is the same, as always. In this mirror he just looks _better_—his hair is shinier, his clothes look newer, more comfortable. The smile on his face is justifiably smug (as always) for he can see in the mirror that he has done something else amazing—he can see a shelf behind him, and he doesn't even need to turn around because he can focus so well on the titles of the books and learns that each one has been written about _him_, and that fills Tom with an excitement he has never known before.

His gaze returns to his own face, which gives him a knowing smile that he cannot quite interpret. Tom smiles in return, and this time he sees a series of gold and silver items glinting behind his head, each inscribed with the mark of the founders. He sees an empty portrait and the transcription _Tom Marvolo Riddle, Hogwarts Headmaster_ below it, and knows that it shall never be filled because he shall never die and shall live at this school for all time, and maybe move his office to this room because this mirror looks far too heavy to be moved easily and he has come to like this place very much.

There comes a day when he walks inside and notices instantly that the room is free of dust. The floor is clean, and he takes the steps towards the mirror as though he is walking for the first time with no worn path through the grime to follow. He sits, awkwardly, looking through the mirror, noting how much brighter the room has become and it hurts his eyes until they adjust.

His face grins back at him, not a hair out of place, but something else seems that way. His uniform looks the same—same tie, same Head Boy badge glistening proudly over his chest—so it must be something else. He reaches out a hand and touches the mirror. It is cold, _too _cold, but the reflection's finger that presses back feels warm (or so he thinks) so it can't be _that_. He looks further into the mirror and sees a fluttering of newspapers behind him, not just the _Daily Prophet_ but newspapers in other languages that he can suddenly read but he doesn't question how and they all say the same things, each with a striking picture of himself, smiling and waving for the camera from a podium, cutting a ribbon at a facility opening, shaking hands with someone as they hand him a medal. The articles are all front-page, all lauding the most remarkable accomplishments; he's cured all kinds of diseases, he's domesticated trolls, dementors, _boggarts_, even. He's saved lives, opened charities…the list goes on and on. He sees one curling scrap of paper in color and it finally strikes him to just look up and it hits him—his eyes are red.

He finds this quite odd on many levels. He has no idea why his eyes are this color in the mirror—and the article's picture—because he likes his eyes the way they are and red is such a strange color (the color of blood, roses, the setting sun, brewed passion fruit tea, and _blood_) and he wonders why this has never happened before.

So many new changes to this room don't sit right with him—after all, he knows when he left this room the previous night so the changes must have taken place in a very short amount of time and quite possibly right before his arrival, which makes him uneasy. The glinting light—he can't quite tell where it's coming from—makes everything in the mirror seem a little lopsided and it's starting to make him feel slightly sick so he stands up, abruptly, which makes him feel slightly _more _sick so he breaks his gaze with his red-eyed counterpart and turns towards the door, taking a few steps before he sees something new.

A mirror has been placed on the wall right next to the door—large, rectangular, and framed in silver. It is not the mirror that catches his eye but his reflection, and what he sees inside the mirror makes his blood run cold and his whole body shakes with the force of it.

It is a testament to his genius and the demands of etiquette that he has not yet screamed. He is better than that, but the need becomes stronger with each passing second. With each heartbeat he can feel the organ thudding away in his chest like it wants to claw its way out and leave him bloody and breathless on the floor. He is frozen in place, and all he can do is stare into the mirror.

The face that stares back at him is not his own.

His cheeks are much hollower, his face much longer. It scares him how pale he is, and it is not because it is still winter and the sun is rarely out, _he_ _knows_ the real reason. His nose looks funny, there is something wrong with his nostrils, and the fact that he can't control his breathing is probably making it look even worse. His hair is thinning—it's so limp and dull and he just doesn't look like _himself_ and if he hasn't been staring at himself in that mirror for months then _what _has he been staring at?

His _eyes_ are the worst part…they are blood red, and so incredibly _hollow _and so horrifically _familiar_, and when he raises a hand in front of his face his actions are mirrored and he pokes his cheek to be sure and he _feels_ it and the pain of that realization is too great.

In pursuit of what he wanted _so badly_, he has destroyed himself. Knowingly.

He wants to run, so he does.

He tears out of the room, not quite sure where he is going so he races the halls and the stairs, turning away whenever he sees another student walking his way because if someone catches him looking like _this_—

He still can't fully accept that the person staring back at him in that new mirror was him, but every time he sees something even slightly reflective he pauses and the same horrible face stares back at him. The polished suits of armor, the stained glass windows (_all red…why is there so much red?_) and even the trophy cases…everywhere he goes he sees his face, and it _can't_ be real, he's dreaming, that has to be it, and he pinches himself with his pale, spindly fingers and _feels_ it, and that takes him running again.

_This can't be real…_he _can't be real…_ (I _can't be real…_

_I know he's not real because I made him—didn't I?—and I think I would know if I was real or not_.

…_Am I? _)

It is only later, when he stumbles blindly back to his room, alone, fingernails clawing scars down his arms because he cannot bring himself to put out his eyes, that he remembers it is his birthday. He moans, and laughs, and cries, and allows himself those luxuries for the last time in his life, because it is his birthday and he is allowed to do whatever he wants on that day (except to die, which is what he really wants to do)—

But most of all, he laughs. And the sound echoes, and he listens, but all he can hear is the silence staring back at him, mocking him, because he will never see that beautiful seventeen year old with the dark hair and the dark eyes again. He does not exist.

Tom Riddle awakes the next morning feeling cold and lonely.

(He awakes that morning _feeling_, which shocks him, because how can something that does not exist _feel?_)

* * *

A/N:

1) That's the **End**, folks. Hope you enjoyed it! This section was definitely my favorite of the group.

2) Yes, that was the Mirror of Erised.

3) Obviously, the idea of the "Simulacrum" played a huge role as one of the major themes in this quartet. I got really excited when I learned this word (in an academic context), so here's the definition in case you don't already know: something that replaces reality with its representation. Jean Baudrillard in "The Precession of Simulacra" defines this term as follows: "Simulation is no longer that of a territory, a referential being, or a substance. It is the generation by models of a real without origin or reality: a hyperreal.... It is no longer a question of imitation, nor duplication, nor even parody. It is a question of substituting the signs of the real for the real." (Cool, right?)

4) Thanks so much for taking the time to read this work of mine! And…_Please review? _


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